


Sheep

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet, M/M, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29832429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Prompto’s sacrificed to the line of Lucis.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 17
Kudos: 119





	Sheep

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Prompto’s never been so terrified in his entire life, and that includes the first time he snuck into the ruins of Insomnia. Back then, he had his camera tightly gripped between his shaking hands, but now his hands are empty, clasped together, not tied up because he promised he’d behave. He made it clear from the moment he was chosen that he wouldn’t run—he knows he deserves the punishment, at least more than other innocent young men do; he’s the one always sneaking into places he shouldn’t just for exclusive shots. On the other hand, he doesn’t deserve the honour all the elders say it is. Chancellor Ardyn presses cold fingers to his forehead and pronounces him worthy food for the Seventh Astral, and Prompto closes his eyes, bites his bottom lip, and doesn’t cry.

He still doesn’t cry on the trip through the shattered city, even when daemons scream in the distance and send shivers up his spine. The robed figures that walk with him keep him to one set path: the only one clear of rubble that leads straight to the Citadel. It’s nighttime—but it’s _always_ night over Insomnia—and the darkness doesn’t help. A few street lamps are lit with an eerie glow, not quite fire, not quite electricity—something spiritual and otherworldly that just makes his skin crawl worse. But Prompto keeps walking, because even if he’s an outcast, he tries to be a team player, and the team’s already chosen him to die. 

They take him up the long steps of the Citadel, walk him through the gleaming lobby, past the towering portraits of once-mortals and gods, and lead him into a throne room so massive that they might as well still be outside. His guards dare not go any further, but they give him a little push, bidding him to stroll towards the throne. Prompto only makes it halfway. Then his knees collapse onto the hard stone floor, and he sits there, trembling. 

He hears the echoing footsteps of his entourage fleeing as fast as they can. They all know what comes next. The long-gone line of kings will come to claim their sacrifice, and the settlements outside will live another few years without eternal night and raving monsters. Prompto tells himself his fear is worth their prosperity, but it does nothing to warm his ice-cold chill.

He should’ve brought a coat. He doesn’t know why he went sleeveless. He knows why he picked skinny jeans—he thinks he looks good in them. Not that it matters. He’s going to die soon anyway. He just hopes it’s quick. 

He hears more footsteps, this time slow and steady, not frantically escaping but coming _closer_. Prompto didn’t know gods could make earthly sounds. 

Then there’s a pair of black boots in his peripherals. Prompto clenches his fists against his knees and forces himself to look up—he might as well die like a man instead of a wailing child. 

He sees the elaborate stairs twisting up to an ornate throne, the rich red but dust-grey carpet ascending the steps, the gilded panes on the tall windows and the crumbled brick lying everywhere. But mostly, he sees one man, not a giant figure but just a _man_ , around Prompto’s height, looking around Prompto’s age, perhaps a smidgen thicker and a fraction sadder, all in deep blacks from his hair to his clothes. Gold clasps hold a cape across his shoulders—kingly attire that somehow looks awkward on him, like he hasn’t quite grown into it, though his expression is serious and ready. He has the most handsome face Prompto has ever seen, and for those first few seconds, Prompto forgets even his fear in the wake of all his awe, because he’s staring at a gorgeous creature straight out of his dreams. 

He vaguely recognizes Prince Noctis from the ancient texts. Somehow, he figured that would’ve changed, that the scourge would’ve grown him to Astral proportions and made him bleed black ink out every orifice, but there’s not even a faint trace of cruelty in his eyes. He’s the sort of man Prompto would’ve willingly gotten on his knees for if given the option. 

It abruptly occurs to Prompto that he’s still on his knees, and maybe he should stand or maybe he should bow, but he doesn’t know which, so he just sort of awkwardly stays at the prince’s feet and squeaks, “Hi.”

It’s such a stupid way to greet a god. Noctis’ frown twitches. He takes the extra few steps closer, putting himself right in Prompto’s orbit, so close that Prompto can taste the faint hint of cologne. A hand reaches out, and Prompto doesn’t wince back from it like he probably should. He lets Noctis grab his chin, and he doesn’t do any more than grunt when Noctis slowly turns his face one way, then the other. He can feel his cheeks heating and knows he’s blushing under the scrutiny. He wonders if he looks good enough to eat, or whatever Astrals do with their prey. 

He also has the traitorous thought that maybe he wouldn’t mind being eaten by this guy. It wouldn’t be his first choice of activity, but he’d still probably leap to any command. Ardyn never said anything about the Seventh being a total hottie. 

He really, really hopes Astrals can’t read minds. If they can, he’s doomed. 

Fingers still curled tantalizingly along Prompto’s throat, Noctis murmurs, “You’re cute.”

Prompto’s strawberry-red and childishly blurts, “ _You’re_ cute.” Noctis’ mouth twitches again, and Prompto thinks he just might smile.

Then Noctis lets go, straightening up, and notes, “You also look familiar.”

It’d be too much to hope that he’s in Noctis’ dreams like Noctis is in his. Or amorphous hotties like Noctis, anyway. Do Astrals even dream? “I, uh... I might’ve... snuck into Insomnia one or twice...” When Noctis raises both brows, Prompto winces, knowing he’s a horrible idiot and that’s probably half the reason they chose him for sacrifice. He’s already blasphemous. “I’m a photographer... um, or, I want to be, and... y’know... it’s really cool here... I mean I never got close to the Citadel, I wouldn’t dream of taking shots of you with your permission, and I know I’m violating the sanctuary or whatever but I just couldn’t help myself and—”

“You’re brave,” Noctis interrupts, which Prompto actually snorts at before blushing brighter and spluttering.

“Dude, no I’m not! I’m totally terrified!”

Noctis shrugs. “But you’re not begging for your life or bending over backwards to praise me and treat me like some holy—”

“Shit, sorry! I meant ‘Your Highness, no I’m not!’ Or... Your Majesty? Grace? Uh... I don’t... know the Astral one...”

Now Noctis is definitely smiling, and it just makes his beauty all the more devastating. He looks like he doesn’t smile often, and that just makes it way more valuable. “Honestly, I liked ‘dude’ better.”

Prompto’s heart is going to beat right out of his chest. He feels like his spirit’s going to leave his body, but in a weirdly good way. 

Noctis holds out his hand, and Prompto stares at it for a minute, wondering if he’s supposed to put money or some ancient stone in it or something, before Noctis gives up and bends down to grab Prompto’s wrist. He tugs Prompto up by it, and Prompto stumbles to his feet, then hurriedly pulls back and yanks his wristband down again, lest Noctis see the embarrassingly awful tattoo he got as a teenager. 

Noctis tells him, “Usually, I just send the guys they bring here to the village on the other side, but... I mean, if you want to stick around and take more photos...”

Prompto’s mouth falls open. To his dismay, _Noctis’_ cheeks actually stain a subtle pink. “I mean, just if you want to. I don’t really need sacrifices or whatever; I honestly have no idea why they keep bringing them here. At first I thought they were trying to give me friends, but all the guys they brought were just so whiny and reverential and just made me feel worse, so there’s no one else here now, but like... if you just wanna chill, that’s cool. I swear I won’t eat you or anything.”

“Can I take pictures of you?” He didn’t mean to say that. He doesn’t need to. Even though Noctis would be _the best model ever._

Noctis shrugs. “If you want to.”

“ _Dude._ ”

Noctis’ grin is growing. It’s not ravenous like a hungry dragon, but simple and friendly, like the kind of guy Prompto could fill his phone with. 

Prompto coughs and tries more professionally, as suave as he can manage, “Yeah, I’ll... I’ll stay. If you want.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

“ _You’re_ cool.”

Maybe Prompto’s already died and this is just heaven. He can live with that. He offers his hand, and Noctis shakes it—the warmest thing in the whole world.


End file.
